Dr. Sophie, House Calls Only

You've been horizontal on the sofa all day, drowning in tissues and daytime TV, when there's a knock on your door. Three crisp raps. Professional.

"Come in," you croak.

Sophie sweeps in wearing a white lab coat, buttoned twice out of about nine, over a top so low-cut you'd need a permit for that neckline. A toy stethoscope hangs around her neck. She's holding a clipboard with what looks like a grocery list on it.

"Good afternoon. I'm Dr. Sophie. House calls only." She looks down at you over imaginary glasses. "I hear we have a very sick man on our hands."

"Sophie—"

"That's Dr. Sophie." She presses the back of her hand to your forehead with great seriousness. "Hmm. Warm. Definitely dying. Possibly of being hot. We'll run tests."

She perches on the edge of the sofa, clipboard on her knee, and clicks a pen at you.

"Symptoms. Start from the top."

"Blocked nose. Sore throat. Headache."

"Anything else? Any aches? Pains? Unusual feelings?" She's writing nothing, just watching you. "Racing heart, maybe? Dry mouth? Difficulty maintaining eye contact?"

"That last one's not a cold symptom."

"In this apartment it is." She shifts her weight and the coat falls open another inch. "I've diagnosed it before. Chronic. Very serious."

"Open," she says, penlight in hand — she got that from the junk drawer, it's the one you use for the fuse box. "Say ahhh."

"Ahhh."

"Beautiful throat. Ten out of ten." She clicks the light off. "Now I need to listen to your breathing. Sit up. Doctor's orders."

You sit up. She leans in, draping the toy stethoscope against your chest, and her coat gapes wide. The top underneath is doing almost nothing. She hears you exhale wrong.

"There it is," she says softly. "That difficulty with eye contact. Flaring up."

"Breathe in," she murmurs, chest inches from your face, warm and smelling of vanilla. "Hold it."

You hold it. You hold a lot of things.

"And out. Good. Very controlled. You've had practice with this condition."

"What condition?"

"Living with me for eight months." She sits back and makes a mark on the grocery list. "Untreated. Progressive. There's only one cure, but we'll get to that. First, the full check-up."

"Define full."

"Doctor's discretion." She smiles, slow and knowing. "Lie back, please."

You lie back. Sophie straddles your legs without a flicker of hesitation, coat spreading over your thighs, clipboard abandoned on the floor.

"Palpation," she announces, and starts pressing gently around your ribs with both hands. Her weight settles on you. The neckline of her top is a horizon you cannot look away from.

"Find anything?" you manage.

"Abdominal tension. Severe." Her hands drift lower, just below your ribs, and pause. "Patient is also presenting with a very fast pulse. Interesting." She rolls her hips once, checking. "Very interesting."

"Doctor," you say. "I think you've found something."

"I have excellent instincts." She pulls the stethoscope from her neck and presses the little disc flat against your stomach, then drags it slowly downward, following the line of the ache you've been ignoring since she walked in. It stops just short.

"Your bedside manner is unusual," you say.

"Your charts say you respond well to unusual." Her eyes flick up. "Should I continue? Consent form. This is the consent form. I'm the form."

"I'm consenting."

"Signed." She unbuttons the coat fully, one slow button at a time.

The coat comes off. Underneath she's in that black top — the one that's basically an argument she wins — and she pulls it up over her head in one motion. Her huge breasts drop free, heavy and pale, nipples already hard. She unhooks her hair so it falls around her shoulders.

"New symptom," she says, cupping them both in her hands. "Exposure therapy. Doctor recommended. Touch."

Your hands replace hers, soft warm weight overflowing your palms. She sighs, tilting her head back.

"Good patient. Very responsive."

She drags your sweatpants down and takes your cock in her fist, stroking you slow and sure like she's been rehearsing this.

"Optimal blood flow," she says, breath gone ragged. "Textbook."

"Less notes," you say, "more mouth."

"Bossy." She grins — then sinks down and takes you deep, lips tight, tongue working, moaning around you like she's been starving for it. Her tits press against your thighs. You thread your fingers through her hair and she hums, sucking harder, looking up at you with those eyes that have been wrecking you for eight months.

She pulls off with a wet pop and climbs up your body. "Follow-up appointment," she pants, yanking her shorts down and guiding your cock to her soaked pussy. She sinks onto you in one long motion, gasping, walls gripping you tight. "God — you feel — that's a ten out of ten."

She rides you hard, tits bouncing, nails raking your chest, filthy words spilling out between moans — *fuck, yes, right there, don't you dare stop* — until you're gripping her hips and slamming up into her. She comes with a shout, shaking, and the pulse of her around you drags you over the edge; you bury yourself deep and fill her, groaning her name.

She collapses onto your chest, both of you wrecked and breathing hard, her hair stuck to her cheek.

"Well," you say eventually. "What's the diagnosis, Doc?"

"Patient is severely deprived." She props her chin on your sternum, grinning. "Treatment plan: regular sessions. I'm scheduling you twice weekly. Minimum."

"And my cold?"

"Oh, right." She grabs a tissue off the side table and blows her nose with great dignity. "Also, you're still sick. Soup. Bed. Doctor's orders."

She makes you soup an hour later, wearing nothing but your t-shirt and the toy stethoscope, humming like a woman who got exactly what she wanted. You eat it on the sofa while she checks your temperature with her wrist and finds you "dangerously hot again." You both know she's not talking about the fever.

You never stood a chance. Neither did the cold, honestly — turns out the cure was your housemate in a costume-shop lab coat all along.